If We’d Used Novels as Our Means of Communication, the Relativity of Literature

The two great minds are, colliding again, translated…

I’d Often Told My Students, No Matter How You May Look Stupid, There’s One Place in This World, that You are a Genius. Go Out, Seek that Place Out, to Find the Genius that Heaven Endowed You with. Go There, Because, You are, the KINGS & QUEENS of that Realm………

The Thought Processes that Revolved Around the Novels

Ming-Yu Ling:

Rong-Je:

All my friends who knew me well knew that I loved that thin volume by Haruki Murakami, “If We All Spoke in the Language of Whiskey”, that was a journey, of finding the origins of whiskeys. But, we’re not talking about alcohol today, nor traveling, besides, I’m not that “infatuated” with whiskeys yet.

The elegance of literature, how should I describe it, it’s, too, abstract, but, my idol, Murakami, was always able to, make those already complicated questions, into even MORE complicated, or more trying for me, to understand.

In one of his essay volumes, he’d stated, “The language we used, are still, language, we live in this world, guided by language. And, we can only, transcribe everything, into something that’s, awake to describe it, and only live, in the limitations of that. But, there are, exceptions too, in those, limited moments of, bliss, our language gets turned, into whiskeys. And we——— at least, I————still, dreamed to live those moments of being, surrounded by dreams.”

He’d turned whiskeys into a metaphor of language, it’s easily, understood by those in his same industry. Another skill that the professional novelists had, is to interpret everything using one’s own beliefs. Changing the world, to make it unbound, by language, a sort, of an universalism that belonged solely to the novels.

I’d still attempted, to transcribe the differences of language, to the spectrums of creativity, what if, we’d, turned the language we used, into novels?

Don’t know if Rong-Je share the same troubles, when things interesting happen around you, our cerebral cortex, upon receiving the information, automated itself, into thinking in terms of noveling, I’d loved thinking using this mode, this is, already, an incurable condition for me.

And, naturally I’d described the events, of retold of the conversations over again, to bring the characters in my stories to life, plus an unexpected, ending…………I’d gotten two sorts of responses, the writers are all, exaggerating, but that wasn’t what I just, said.

I’m not complaining how hard it was, getting along with those with an engineering degree, who were, guided by, solely logic, after all, they’d not minded, that I lived, in Martian time zones, you’re probably, luckier than I am, because your better half is also, a novelist too.

Sometimes, I’d, become more toned-up, to not use the overly dramatic language, to not go overboard. I’d told other people more than once, if you lived with Rong-Je Hsu, you wouldn’t think, that I’m, exaggerating anymore. But, I’d never wanted to, change my life, that’s, filled up, with the ways of the novels, after all, if I’d done that, then, I wouldn’t, be me anymore.

And, how do we, use the simpler, more easily understood language, to get closer to the truth, and yet, with the powers, to, exceed what is, real, that is, the challenges of a novelist’s life, like those boundaries in the movie, “The Maze Runner”, with the uncertainties, no logic we can go by, and, even IF we kept, bumping into the walls, we’d needed to, use methods that our readers can understand, to guide ourselves, out of that, labyrinth.

The “limitations” of language, it’s boundaries, I’m still, attempting, to get across. As I’d used the images not related to life as metaphors, perhaps, other than those who’d read the book, but not seen the movies, or even, those readers who’d, never watched any movies, the languages used in the novels appeared to be, bourgeois.

But, another way of interpreting the languages used in novels, is that it’d must, exceeds its, limitations, like how Murakami had gone to interview Jim in the distillery of Islay, and found the answers to the kegs that breathed that the kegs had, breathed in the sea breezes in the rain seasons, and in the dry seasons, “the whiskeys kept pushing from inside the kegs. And in this back and forth, it’d, made the whiskey brewed there, to have that special taste. And this special taste had, calmed the hearts of the drinkers.”

The novelist, Murakami only wanted to take this trip, and just gotten drunk on the single-malts, don’t know if at this time, he’d felt, that same earthquake as I am doing, and the origin of that earthquake was himself, who’d, set at his writing desk. And, the whiskey that Jim spoke of, was that precision of writing that novelists are seeking to write with. Alcohol is nonliving, but, from the lips of the brewers, it’d, gained a brand new life, can breathe, with the particles moving around, and about, soaked in the kegs, enduring through the long season of rain, fixing oneself up, waiting, for that dry season that will come soon.

The language of novels, is nothing, but the whiskeys in the kegs, going through the repeated impact against the kegs, to make that best smooth, taste, to try to, get closest, to the cores of the novel, to attempt to, go deeper, than the surfaces of the human skins, then, to pull out, that heart of darkness, that’s, covered up, hidden too deep.

Making things up is not the original intent of novelists, more importantly, to turn what’s unreal, into what’s real, to the point, that the words became, surreal to the readers, to make a bigger, better frame of things, to put that center inside the novels for the readers.

Most of the times, as I’d written to my wits ends, I’d gotten reminded of some people I’d known, some were, my best friends from my distant adolescent years, some were, those students who were once, strangers, but I’d, gotten to know, how did we, make the connections, and, break it again. I’d loved imagining, what had, happened, to them?

In my second year of middle school, I’d often gone to a classmate’s home, her family owned a small diner, her mother knew more or less, that I was, staying at another student’s home, and, she’d felt, empathy toward how I was, living under, someone else’s roofs.

And, I’d started, helping out at the shop that my classmate’s family owned, anything…the dishes, making the drinks, making the plates of shaved ice, anything, sometimes, when the customers came so fast, I’d become, like a busy little bee, buzzing around the shop, and aunty was always, grinning ear to ear. And, would from time to time, stuff my hands with the Chinese herbal remedies, said it was, good for us, and, had given me the apples and the pears, told me to come and get more after I’d, finished. I can’t tell you, how much, I’d, longed for this kind of gentleness and kindness, and I’d, forgotten about the hardships of living under someone else’s roofs, and forgot how my parents were, separated, and forgotten how I’d felt, like I was, a luggage that someone had, forgotten about.

Back then, I’d not realized, that my classmate didn’t like me very much. Every time I’d gone over to her home, she’d pretended like she didn’t have anything against me, still chatted, and, she’d, squeezed in to the kitchens, to tell me things. Until once, after the heights of the dining in time, she’d told me she was going upstairs to listen to some tapes, back then, we were into the Japanese singers, she’d collected many tapes, as well as, posters too. Later on, someone called her from downstairs, he’d gone downstairs, but, there was, a box of cassettes missing, I’d wanted to ask her about them, and, as I was, about to, turn downstairs, I’d heard her tell another classmate. “I really hate her, why does she come over every day, so shameful, she’d even, invited herself in for the meals too.”

I’d forgotten how I got out of her house, perhaps, I’d, found me an excuse, and excused myself, quickly, and I’d stopped, going to her house, and, made myself invisible in her presence also. From that day on, I’d started, slouching over and, as someone showed goodwill to me, I’d, started thinking that it was, fake. Why are you, faking your kindness, when you don’t like me one bit? We’d not spoken another word, until we’d, graduated.

Murakami once said, “If a story can’t make the readers into better people, then, there’s, no point, in writing that story.”

If the language of the novels are limited, then, I must, try my best, to describe the story, and this, is the only thing that novelists can, accomplish. That girl longed for the feelings of family, that was why, she’d, come closer to that place, but, she was, the one, hated by her classmate, for her mother’s diverting her attention away from her, and, she’d, lost the connection to her friend, whatever happened to them both?

If, our language is the novel, then, this supposition only, benefitted the minority of people, for me, in the trying moments in my own life, reading and writing daily, it’d, helped me find the meanings of my own existence, or maybe, letting the time pass through myself, becoming, a better person than I can, imagine.

And so, there’s, ALWAYS truth in the fictions, and, that is why, reading those fictitious tales, can hit that part in our hearts, make us connect, so well, with the characters, because, the characters are, alter egos of the writers themselves.

The Trial by Fire of the Stories

Rong-Je Hsu

Ming-Yu:

I’d agreed to your saying of the novelists worked their whole lives to “try to get the language closest to reality, and, exceeds the reality”.

It’s that this same technique, is term by some as “exaggeration”, and “twisting the facts” by others.

At the very start, I’m a story teller who’s “seventy-percent truthful, thirty-percent fabricated”.

This nature of mine made it especially hard, as I was doing research in engineering, I’d researched on the “operations of the reservoirs”, when to keep the water, when to release it, there’s, set rational data to follow, there’s, NO room for romance or things that are, made up.

But, you can’t be someone you’re not, I’d still, told my share of stories working as an engineer.

On the surface, I’d gotten so exaggerated telling those tales, but deep down, I was, so scared, if I wasn’t careful, I’d caused everybody to not have enough water to drink, and, on the bigger scales, I’d, caused the reservoirs to overflow, and, everybody is, drowning.

And so, I’d, changed to working in theatre, to writing novels.

The same talents, in operating the reservoirs, it’d become, stumped, I’d felt, like I was, a loser every day; but, as I’d, used the same techniques in script writing, and writing, I’d felt in my element, and felt like a genius every day.

And so, I’d told my students, no matter what sort of a loser you are, there’s, that part of you that’s, genius, go seek it out, that realm where you ruled.

“Seventy-percent factual, thirty-percent fictional” this is all the talents that we’d needed, to tell a story, but, it’s not quite enough, to tell a good story.

Back then, as I’d, dipped my toes into script writing, the person who’d, influenced me the most was, Shinji Nojima, his most famous work, “101 Times Proposed”, “Under the Same Roofs”, and “High School Instructor”.

His stories are all out there, but they’re all, very high in popularity.

In “Love Knows No Tomorrow”, in order to help cure her younger sister’s blindness, the female protagonist married a rich man whom she doesn’t love. In her wedding gown, the female lead sat in the helicopter operated by the rich man she married, they were going to some private island for their honeymoon. At this time, the man the female protagonist loved showed, and he’d, stood on the ground, staring up at the female protagonist who’s, flown up in the air.

At this time, the story took the viewers into a memory, the blind younger sister once asked the female lead a question. If the world comes to an end, which animal will you take onto Noah’s Ark? (1) Sheep, (2) Horse, (3) Peacock, (4) Tiger.

Back then, the female lead looked at the blind eyes of her younger sister (it was during their childhood years, that the female lead, out of jealousy, had poked her younger sister’s eyes out, made her blind), she’d said sorrowfully, “if the world comes to an end, I’d, end with the world”. The older sister did not only not choose, and, she’d managed, to make a fifth option for herself.

Then, returning back to reality, the female lead turned her head toward her rich husband, then, gave her a sorrowful smile, then, pushed open the helicopter door, leapt downward, in the end, she’d become, a vegetable. She’d become, a self-fulfilling prophecy from the personality test: to get destroyed with the world.

There’s no one option, that was, more precise, than the one that the female protagonist had, created, for herself.

And, the playwright, Shinji Nojima had taught me, to adjust the makeup of my stories, “Fifty-percent truth, fifty percent fictional”.

Thirty-percent of the storytelling was my original talent, and, the fifty-percent added, was the strengthening of my storytelling.

What if my readers felt, that it’s, too overly exaggerated, that it didn’t, fit logic?

Then, let them all go! You need to select your own readers, the stronger the styles of the writers, the stronger this showed, like Haruki Murakami.

In my classifications, Murakami had, gone one step further, his stories were “forty-percent nonfictional, sixty-percent fictional”.

For instance:

Murakami mentioned how this was how he’d, begun his writing career:

The year he’d turned 29, on an afternoon in April, he’d gone to a baseball game, of which he was a fan of the team, Yukult. On the outfield bleachers, he’d drank the beers, and watched the games, at which time, his team hit the ball to second base. At that very moment, he’d gotten that strong feeling, “hey, maybe, I can write novels”.

And, who was it, that’s hit that baseball, got to second base? What inning was this? What batter was he? How did the Yukult team do that year? All of that, were seemingly, unrelated to how “Murakami began writing novels”, but, it’s, completely, related.

Back then, the man who’d hit the baseball and ran to second base was Dave Hilton, he was a player who’d just been traded to Japan to play. Without any fame, he’d gotten on base in that first hit, and he was, the very first batter.

That year, Team Yukult was there, to make the other teams shine, the owners didn’t have that much money, there were, NO star players on the team. But in the end, Team Yukult was the miracle, not only did they become the champions of the central leagues, they’d beaten the Pacific League’s champions.

If this s a movie, I’d, totally turn the second base hit into the start of the movie.

First inning, first batter, a foreigner who was, unknown to everybody, his second base hit, opened up that deepest, darkness, and took Team Yukult who’d not been expected to perform well at all, ALL the way to the championship games.

It was amazing that, Murakami had, selected this story, as the backdrop for his own fictional creations. When he’d felt most lost at people’s lives, this is the sort of stories we want to hear.

I’m sure, that Murakami knew well, but he couldn’t explain, because if he had, then, it would make the story lose that scent of magic, and there wouldn’t be, the Murakami-ness of the story anymore.

Would my above descriptions be, a bit, too narrowminded?

Fine, let’s tell it, in a more gentler way:

This wasn’t Murakami’s plan all along, it was his language, every word he’d written had, made his readers exclaimed, “it’s our god, Murakami”. Then, the readers rehashed the miraculous act of Murakami to someone else, because the readers wanted to see someone else’s jaw drop too.

And so, how to become, a good story teller is the center of this article, and, how to become a good story teller, truth, mixed in, with fiction, but the proportions of truths and fictions, is up for grabs, because everybody has a difference of interpretation, it’s all on the writers’ methods of conveying what they want to say to the readers.

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Stanzas on Rocks, a Poem

Doing things, that are, of no importance to us in life, how long, did we, spend, living like this again??? Too god DAMN long, is my guess!!! And yet, we still, can’t stop it, why is that, do you know??? Translated…

Go!

Look into the Open & Move Out

All the Pieces Inside Your Chest

The Oceans Will Take Over from Afar Now

like this, video from Youtube…

All of These Balls from the World

The Beaches of the World

Had Become, so Filled, with

Those, Looking Hard

for Their, Destinies

And so, you can see, how blindly, people are, searching for things, right? We’re all, picking up these, useless “rocks” thinking, that they’re, something important to us, that we’d, needed them, in our lives, in the end, these rocks that we’d, carried only, weighed us down, and we still don’t have a clue, that we’re the ones, who can, stop carrying, ALL these, rocks!

Message in a Bottle, from Outerspace

Testing, to see, if the love she found in her man, is true, translated…

She’d stood, by my bed tonight, quietly stated, “I’m a message in a bottle”.

“What message?”

“I’m a message in a bottle, drifted from the civilizations in outerspace to Earth.”

“………”

like this???  Ohoto from online…

Rewind please. I’m an independent international reporter, my job is, getting the news, as it’d, happened in the present tense. And she, the woman I’d loved so deeply, for the past, twenty years.

“What’s that you say? I can’t understand it.”

She’d smiled like she always had, slowly stated, “You should know, that this earth we reside on right now, kept sending messages to outerspace, and, some of these messages included the human greetings, the sounds of nature, and even, the funny recordings of the presidents of the bigger nations in the U.N. too……………so, they’re, probably, wanting to, communicate with living beings outerspace.”

She said, “We’d, received all the messages. And you’d all, collected the electromagnetic waves, and analyzed our signals, to seek out possible living beings in outerspace, and all the moves you made, we’re, very much aware of, although, we’d felt, that your actions aren’t, useful or fruitful, but, we’d, commended you all, for trying as hard.”

“You, you are, from outerspace, an ALIEN!………and so?”

“So, I have to admit, our union, was for, a purpose.”

“What?”

“My maker from outerspace, made me into a ‘message in a bottle’, sent me to outerspace You all thought: there are, many aliens living on earth already, nope, only me, I’m, the one, and only, there are, messages of civilization from outerspace inside of my body, but, since the beginning of man, I’d been set, adrift on the seas, no humans ever, discovered me, read me, how many centuries had it been, how old am I now? And, it’s, pointless, for you, to guess that, I’d looked the same in the past, and in the present, the one you’d, loved.”

“I…love…you”, I’d, stated, timidly.

“Since humans can’t find me, I’d, come and found you. I love you too, this, is the truth, but there’s, another more important reason—you are, an independent reporter of international news, needed to travel around the globe, to interview and to write out your reports, and you’d, needed to be doing it, LIVE!”

like this???  Photo from online…

“What does it have to do with doing it LIVE?”

“Just be patient and hear me out. Every time we were together, for short periods of time, I’d, saved some messages onto you, I’d not dared put too much on, fearing, that you couldn’t, handle it, little by little, do you know how many messages I’d, saved on you already? You can imagine me as, the digital binary codes that kept coming, the history of all civilizations in the universe, is all on me.”

“So, to be clear~~~there’s that digital letter from the universe inside of you then, and your body is, like the bottle (a vessel) then.”

I’d continued, “No wonder I’m growing more and more interested by the astronomy no matter where I go, when I’d gazed up at the stars, I’d, found the comfort I’d, longed for, no longer was I in fear, even if I was in the midst of a war with myself or with the outside world, I’d not, feared.”

“You said, that you can’t write the news unless you’re, right there in the actions. I’d arrived to the scenes through you, and, passed the codes in my body through you, to all corners of the world. You’d asked me, why don’t I, do it myself? It’s simple, because the messages needed to have the help from the compassions and the love to be able to get sent. I know, that being a reporter, you can’t just, go on your curiosity, you’d, loved your job so much, because of your compassion toward others, and how much you’d, cared for the world, isn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure.”

“In these twenty years, you’d become, a middle-aged man, you’d once smiled and told me how amazing it was, I could, keep looking young, I’m sure, that being a journalist like you, you would’ve, already, figured it out. And, as I’m telling you this tonight, you may believe it, or don’t, it’s the truth. As a ‘message in a bottle’, drifted to earth from outerspace, my mission is, expired now, the order I’d received was, to persuade you, to become, another ‘message in a bottle’, you now have, all the codes of the civilizations from outerspace, I just need to, kiss you, then, you’d, get activated. If you’d not accept, then, everything will become, digitized, and become, an oracle (to prevent your contact with another human being, and spilling out the secrets I’d, shared with you).”

“What I care about right now is…are you……leaving me?”

“Dearly, if your body becomes a message in a bottle, then, I’m, inside of you.”

“Can I still, work as a reporter?”

“You can still, work as an independent reporter for international news.”

“But, after hearing you out, I’d wanted to become, an ‘universal independent reporter’, I wanted to, interview the ‘higher being’ that’s, turned you, into a message in a bottle………”

“Ahhh, I’d, forgotten, about your occupational hazard!”

“I wanted to take you along, to love, to care about, this entire universe.”

“Uhhh, I’d been, joking with you tonight, there’s, NO truth in what I’d told you tonight.”

“You know what, reason why I’d become, an international independent news reporter, is because I’m in search of that ‘message in a bottle’ from outerspace all over the world.”

So, do you think this woman is playing with this man? I don’t think so, she’d, shared, that most intimate part of herself, to test if he’ll, still love her, and, he does, and, from her mini-“experiment”, she knew, she’d, found herself, a good man, who’d, cared about the rest of the outside world.

Finally, a Poem

Translated…

The Lights……Dimmed

The Daylight……Died

People All Gone Separate Ways

The World

Kept Trekking Onward

in the Loneliness

An Old Oak Waved Outside the Window

Come, My Child

You’re Not the First

Nor Will You be, the Last

So, there’s, that scent of solitude, that everything is, finally calmed back down, like how after the dark, things quieted down, and the hustles and bustles of the busyness of the days are, long behind us in this, and there’s, that continuation of life, that keeps on going endlessly too…

Piercing Eyes…

She had a pair, of piercing eyes, that can, see into the deepest, darkest, desires of men, and, she’d, tailored, to all those men’s deepest, darkest desires.

Piercing eyes, that, was what she had, until, until the night that fate had, stepped in, and took everything from her, and everything got turned, upside down, her life, flipped around, and, nothing was ever, and will ever be, the same again.

like these???  Not my photo…查看來源圖片

Piercing eyes, they’d, pierced through to a man’s heart, into his soul, and I guess, that, is why, they’re all, attracted, drawn to her, like moths to that burning flame, without realizing, that she’s not, meant to be, toyed with, that instead of being their prey, she’s, the predator, lurking around, to find her next kill!

Piercing eyes, not yours, you don’t have them, you’re eyes had, no light in them, and, it’s because, of everything you’d weathered through in life thus far, and will, continue, to weather through from here on out………

Piercing eyes, they’re, no longer, piercing, not since, she’d, lost it, it got, taken from her by force, and, as she lay there, the light, it’d, died, slowly, made its, exit, from her originally, bright eyes.

 

The Stars Disclosed

Conversations with the stars in the nightly skies, translated…

That Star, Far Off, in the Distant Night Skies Said

My Existence

Made Possible by My Own Stubbornness

Existing Purely

without Anyone Else’s Telling Me to

查看來源圖片like this???  Not my photo…

You’d Best, Stay Far Off from Me

In Case, that One Snow White Morn

After Many, Many, Many Starless Nights Passed

Before You Could, Go to the Bathrooms, to Get Yourselves Cleaned Up & Off

As My Light is Still Outside, Keeping the Skies

Rolling My Eyes

at You

or this???查看來源圖片looking up at the stars, not my photo still…

So, this, I guess, would be a sort of a confession from a star? And, the narrator reflected her/himself, into the interaction s/he had with that distant star, like s/he was, talking to and with oneself.

Mosquito, a Poem

The poem on autumn, translated…

How Can the Words Manage to Carry

The Sudden Temperature Drop of Autumn?

The Papers Slowly Changed Colors

Just Like Those Standstill Yellowed Leaves

查看來源圖片like this???  Not my animation…

The Water Fowls Left that Final Reflection on the Lake This Year

The Rifles Sounded

We’re on the Race, on the Tracks of Time Now

Imagining How We Can Still, Test the Waters Before the Cold Fronts Get Here

Riding on the Moisture

So You Get to See the Light and Shadows

Made by the Sunset as Well as the Dawn on My Forehead

I Used My Trembling Hands

with the leaves fallen, into this red carpet…not my photo…

Wrote the Words on Your Skins

Hearing Carefully, and Walked Along

To See if I’d Lost the Tempos

Imagining the Differences of Time, It’s a Delusion

Words Became the Matchmakers of Time

We in the Crevasses

Decorating

查看來源圖片looks beautiful, doesn’t it??? Not my picture…

the Sunlight & the Dusts

You’d Told Me

that After the Typhoon

The Drapes Wouldn’t Stop Rustling

查看來源圖片the seaonal changes, not my collage…

That You’d Often Felt that Itch Inside, Because of the Gossips in the Wind

You’d Not Known

that After the Seasons Changed

Those Words I’d Written Down on You in Secret

Already Turned

Into Mosquitoes

So, there’s that scent of how the seasons are changing, how everything is slowed down quite a bit, from the heats of the summer, slowly, entering into autumn, and soon, it will be, winter, where everything is frozen…